Worship At The Shrine Of Your Lies
by coloursflyaway
Summary: Hannibal's and Will's idea of dirty talk is speaking about how they would kill the other.


Hannibal crooks the three fingers inside of him, and Will tries his hardest not to moan, not to mewl; grips the sheets tighter and bites his lips. Tells himself that he doesn't need this, doesn't want this, and ignores the nagging voice inside him which asks why he is here again, then. Why he is spread out on expensive silk sheets, naked, his lips bruised from kisses and his hole twitching and clenching around the fingers Hannibal is stretching him open with.  
He can't make a noise, but the other man spreads his fingers out when he thrusts them back inside Will again, pushes them deep and makes him hurt in the best of ways; there is a scream perched under his skin, and Will pushes it back and lets words tumble from his lips instead.  
"I'd let you bleed out", he gasps and hopes that the words cut, that they hurt. Even in the darkness, Will can make out Hannibal's eyes, deep and bright with interest; he likes this, and while Will hates that, he still likes the picture he has just started painting, Hannibal helpless and dying.

"I would, I'd lay you down on the floor, on a bed-" His words are cut short, because Hannibal shoves his fingers deep and deeper, lets the tips rub across his insides in a way which makes Will's head spin, makes him arch off the mattress. "Use the scars on your arms as templates, would cut them open again, make you taste your own blood…"  
Before his voice has faded, Hannibal shoves a fourth finger along the others, makes Will keen and clench around them, throw his head back, because it's too much and yet not enough. And he wants to say something else, something about blood and pain and death, to take his mind off this, off the burning need inside him, which seems to slowly swallow him whole, but Hannibal is faster than him, cuts him off with a twist of his fingers and a deep, rumbling voice.  
"You wouldn't even notice the pressure at first", he whispers, and it sounds like a promise, sounds like a fantasy Hannibal has kept to himself for such a long time. "I'd be gentle, just my hands around your throat, my thumbs against your jaw…you'd only notice it when it was too late…"

Hannibal is talking about choking him, Will realises, and the thought makes pleasure jolt through him, twisted, hot, filthy pleasure, and he grinds himself down on the other's fingers, breath stuttering in his throat as the friction makes him lose himself in the moment.  
"I'd make you suffer, I'd make it _hurt_", he moans, whines when Hannibal scissors his fingers until it feels as if he's been torn apart; it's perfect. But it only lasts a moment, then the other pulls his fingers out, leaves Will aching and empty and fuming with anger. "Cut you until you couldn't see the skin beneath the blood. I'd tear you apart at the seams."

If he could, Will would say more, spew insults and bite and scratch and maim, but Hannibal throws his legs over his shoulders, spreads them wide, and gives Will only a moment to breathe before he pushes in, forces all the air he has just sucked in so greedily out of Will's lungs again. They have done this at least a dozen times, but Will is still not used to it, doesn't quite know how to relax, how to take it…and maybe, he thinks, he doesn't want to, either, because like this, it takes his breath, his mind away. Hannibal isn't gentle with him, never was, and Will loves it.

"It wouldn't hurt at first", Hannibal whispers and Will only half-hears him through the blood pulsing in his ears, doesn't pay attention because he is full, so full… and yet, the words make him gasp, clench down around the other's cock. It intensifies the pain, the burn of being stretched so open, and Will pushes back as much as he possibly can, makes himself hurt. "Only would when the pressure on your windpipe would grow too much, only when your hyoid bone would splinter. But you could take it, couldn't you?"  
And Hannibal wants him to take it, oh God, Will can feel it in his words, can feel it in the way he pulls out and slams back inside of him, setting a slow, but hard pace.  
"You'd try to kick and scream, but in the end, you'd just accept it, let it happen…" The thrusts seem to blur together, because everything seems to shrink down to friction, to pleasure and pain and the movement of Hannibal's muscles against his thighs, the words he mutters in a tone that makes them sound like filthy secrets. And Will hates him for it, tries to tell himself so, at least.  
"It'd be slow", he forces his lips to say, fills the words up with as much venom as he possibly can. "J-just shallow cuts at first, everywhere, your face, your chest, your limbs…"

The next thrust is harder, goes deeper and Will can't hold back the sounds forcing their way up his throat, because it feels too good, his body singing with the torture, the force of Hannibal's thrusts. He wants to reach down and stroke himself to completion, not leave it up to the other, but the pleasure it would bring does not outweigh the fact that it would be a battle he'd have lost without fighting; because this is a fight just like every of their conversations is one, every glance. So instead he gathers his frayed seams and torn layers and pulls himself together as much as possible, pushes back and forces Hannibal's cock deeper inside him with the next thrust. He cannot stop the other from talking, though.  
"You would get dizzy and I could see it in your eyes, how your vision would get blur, how you would forget about anything but me…"

The most frightening thing is that Will can imagine it, the hands around his neck, the air supply that would be running out slowly, but surely, and he likes it. Likes it almost as much as he likes Hannibal pounding into him, somehow still having maintained control while Will is so close to losing his mind.  
"For a moment, you'd be mine."  
And he is Hannibal's, at least for a horrible, wonderful split second, can feel the other man in his bones and lungs and in the core of every cell; it makes Will choke and push back, hating the way his toes curl with every of Hannibal's thrusts. Heat is slowly spreading through him, making his skin burn and tingle, and he has been here often enough to know exactly what this means. "Deeper", he gasps out, before he knows it; there is only one way to turn this into something else than it is (a plea) and Will takes it. "I'd cut deeper each time, until I'd see bones and sinews until I could take you apart and make you scream…"

Hannibal makes a sound, which is so rare that it almost startles Will, rough like sandpaper and deep like the sea, and fucks into him harder, with a force that is almost punishing and perfect, shatters Will into pieces and doesn't give him time to put himself together again. And then the other speaks again, and makes it better, makes it worse.  
"You'd die and I'd be the one who'd watch the life leave you." He leans in and Will can feel his breath hot against his skin, can feel him moving beneath him, lifting up higher; the next thrust hits his prostate and makes Will scream. "I would be the last thing you'd ever see."

And it's enough, it's too much, pushes Will over the edge he had been holding onto and makes his vision blur, his whole body tense up with pleasure as he comes all over his own stomach; he has to bite his lips to keep himself from moaning Hannibal's name.

The other fucks him right through his orgasm, doesn't allow the pleasure to ebb off, instead does his best to make sure that it keeps growing, one wave blending into another, but it's not enough. It's not enough because Hannibal is still in control, still untouched, and Will cannot stand it. So he clenches down around the other's cock, throws his arms around Hannibal's neck and pulls him close enough so he can whisper into the older man's ear. "I'd cut out your heart."  
Hannibal comes with a small, subtle grown, fucks into Will so harshly it rocks him forward on the sheets, the friction torturous and still perfect against his swollen hole.  
It feels like he has won.


End file.
